The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  In the meantime, I took any chance available to stay clear of my mother and found myself completely immersed in my father’s criminal enterprises. My job as copilot and adolescent accomplice was exhausting. I often missed school after being up all night. Once I reached senior high, my parents gave no further thought to my education. Schoolwork had to be completed during study hall or it simply did not get finished.

  Although I desperately wanted to go to college after graduation, I understood that I would not receive help or encouragement from the home front. My parents were so caught up in their destructive behavior that neither had the emotional energy to concern themselves with my schooling. Higher education would be something I would pursue on my own, after I made my escape from Clay Avenue and my parents’ dysfunctional world. In the meantime, survival was essential, and protecting myself from Bonnie’s poisonous tongue was central to my wellbeing. I had learned the hard way that Bonnie’s fists were no match for her tongue and I was thankful for any opportunity for escape, no matter what the potential danger.

  I was well paid for my work, making fifty to a hundred dollars a week in wages. At this stage, I began to prepare for my eventual flight from Clay Avenue. Opening a bank account, I systematically deposited part of my weekly wages in preparation for the independent life I dreamed of each night. I also began to purchase necessities for my emancipation. Clearing out a closet in the warehouse below our apartment, I filled it over the next few years with common household appliances, bedding, dishware, utensils, and other goodies that would help me set up my own household. My growing “escape fund” allowed me focus on the possibility of a “normal” future. I had six years to go before I reached the magic number of autonomy. Eighteen and free—what a glorious thought!

  Seven

  Ice Cream, Pizza, and the Loogie Man

  “…And these children that you spit on

  As they try to change their worlds

  Are immune to your consultations

  They’re quite aware of what they’re going through...”

  David Bowie, “Changes”

  I was thirteen the second time I was spat upon. Surprisingly, this occasion was not directly related to my father’s shenanigans. The perpetrator was an outsider, a wannabe body builder from Pittsburgh who began to haunt the streets of Jeannette seeking unwitting victims to bully. Of course, at the time of our first encounter, I was not aware of his profession. Because of the events that would occur over the next week, I will forever think of him as “the Loogie Man.”

  I first encountered this nasty piece of work on a bright and sunny Saturday while I sat at my post in front of our family store. My father and his crew were nestled in the store’s musty basement, engaged in a marathon poker game that had started the night before. To ensure that the players below would have adequate warning of a police raid, I had been charged with spending the day on the front steps—on the lookout for the boys in blue.

  To all outward appearances, I was tending to the mini-farmer’s market I had set up earlier that morning. Wooden crates piled high with oranges, apples, grapefruits, and bananas contrasted beautifully with the verdant garden of greens I had artfully arranged to capture the attention of customers passing by. The whole time I assisted customers with their purchases, I was vigilantly on guard for anything that might threaten the men participating in the game below. The system my father had set up was ingenious—and very effective, as well. Unbeknownst to outsiders, Al had installed an alarm system that when activated would announce the impending approach of police intent on conducting a raid. From my position on the front steps, I was within arm’s reach of a tiny buzzer hidden under the molding of the store’s display window.

  This may seem like a bizarre job for a young girl, but having performed this chore from an early age, I grew to be a very skilled lookout. As I honed my sales technique on those in search of fresh produce, I also became adept at spotting police, even those who were working undercover. I knew all of Jeannette’s police force and was on constant watch for new faces. Having been exposed to countless raids and police investigations since birth, I had learned to evaluate strangers as potential threats. Experience had taught me to be cautious of outsiders, and to study a stranger’s gait, clothes, hair, speech, and body language. I developed a keen sense of when something “wasn’t quite right.” On more than one occasion, I detected an undercover police officer attempting to gather information or a recon officer waiting to signal others in the backdrop to begin a raid.

  On this particular day, I was enjoying the beautiful weather and the latest book I had picked up from the library. When not waiting on a customer, I would sit back against the window frame—and buzzer—to peruse my novel. Wearing sunglasses allowed me to look about and evaluate my surroundings periodically without attracting attention. Outwardly, I must have appeared lost in the adventure of the novel.

  I heard the Loogie Man before I saw him. As he pulled up to the red light adjacent to the store, he began to assail me with off-color remarks. Looking up, I observed the stranger from behind my sunglasses. I took note of his person and the vehicle he was driving, and determined he was not a threat to the players below. Without any outward acknowledgment of his vulgar language, I quickly returned to my book. The light turned green and the Loogie Man drove off up the Avenue. A few minutes later, he returned and began to demand my attention, obviously insulted that I had not acknowledged him earlier. “Bitch, I am talking to you! What are you, deaf? I’m looking for a date and you fit the bill. I like my women young, and you look like a tasty morsel.” Disgusted at his unsolicited attack but continuing to ignore him, I stood up, turned my back toward him, and entered the store.

  My mother, who was holding court with several of her friends, inquired as to why I had left my post. When I explained the situation, Bonnie followed me outside and waited a few minutes to see if the Loogie Man would return. He did not immediately show up, so we assumed he had found entertainment elsewhere. “Look,” she instructed, “if he comes back, just spit on the ground and he’ll get the picture. If he doesn’t and continues to harass you, then come get me.” I agreed and settled back into my post. Several customers stopped by for produce.

  As I was assisting an elderly woman with her purchases, I noticed the Loogie Man drive past again. He did not glance my way but instead sped off. Unfortunately, a few minutes after my last customer disappeared from view, he reappeared and continued his attack. “You know, bitch, I should pull this car over and whip your ass. Who do you think you are, ignoring me? Do you know who I am? I am the strongest man alive! That’s right, I am going to take this town over, and you are going to grovel at my feet. You hear me, bitch? I am the next fucking Lou Ferrigno!”

  Having had experience with morons like this before, I knew that this situation was not going to end well. I hesitated. The question kept running though my mind: Should I or shouldn’t I spit? Bonnie was clear that he would get the picture, but I was not so sure. Just as I decided to call Al up from the basement and let him handle this particular problem, the Loogie Man went too far.

  “I’m going to chew on you like an ear of corn, Goldilocks. Then I am going to come all over your snooty face.”

  Without a word, I stood up and spat on the ground in front of me. As Bonnie predicted, he got the picture and quickly peeled out, leaving tire marks on the street. Triumphant, I sat back down and returned to my novel, hoping that this incident was put to rest. Three days later, I would find out it was not.

  Matzo Ball Soup, Ice Cream, and Spit

  The day started out as most. My father dragged me out of bed at four-thirty in the morning. A half-hour later, I was in the passenger seat of the truck as we headed to the Strip District in downtown Pittsburgh to pick up some fresh produce for the store. In the 1970s, before the demise of the city’s steel industry, you could smell Pittsburgh miles before the city came into view. Belching smokestacks polluted the air with byproducts that smelled like rotten eggs. Approaching Pittsbur
gh from the east, we passed a series of massive steel factories, the might of Pittsburgh’s economy, which lined the Penn Lincoln Parkway leading to the city’s three-river center.

  Arriving at the Strip District, Al parked in front of our regular wholesalers and headed to meet up with “some friends,” as I began the chore of selecting the produce and plants I thought most desirable. An hour later, I loaded up the truck, and headed down the street to rendezvous with Al for breakfast.

  The Strip District was one of my favorite places. Even at five in the morning, it was bustling with activity as some laborers began their day and others prepared to finish their shift. As I made my way past the lively warehouses, I encountered the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with roasting meats wafting out of the restaurants that were nestled within the beehive of businesses.

  On the mornings I accompanied him, Al would take me to my favorite deli, which served enormous breakfast plates that temporarily satisfied my father’s seemingly unending appetite. Entering the restaurant, I found Al already devouring a large plate of hash and eggs. This particular deli was famous for their over-stuffed deli sandwiches and massive breakfasts, but luckily, they also served one of my favorite dishes, matzo ball soup. The owner, a gruff, portly, yet warm-hearted Jewish man, was horrified the first time I ordered matzo ball soup for breakfast. Jackie thought it an inappropriate meal for breakfast and flat out refused to serve it to me. Only after some cajoling from my father did he finally agree, but Jackie insisted on a compromise—he would serve me the soup topped off with a fried egg. This may sound unappetizing, but I found it delicious. After I had devoured my steamy, albeit nontraditional, breakfast, Al and I made the short ride home to Jeannette. I unloaded the produce and began to set up my fruit market. I then spent the morning selling my wares and taking care of customers.

  Around noon, my father called me into the store and handed me a stack of money to deliver to a winning sports client at a nearby luncheonette. Counting out the money to confirm the amount, as Al had taught me years before, I peeled off the fifty-dollar bills from the hundreds. I turned the bills to ensure that Grant and Ben always faced to the right, and then verified the thirty-five hundred dollar winnings. As I headed for the door, Al instructed me to bring back two cheeseburgers and a large order of onion rings.

  “Did you order them?”

  “No, that’s your job,” my father replied, sarcastically. By the tone of his voice, I knew that his massive breakfast had worn off. A hungry Al was not a pretty sight!

  Placing the winnings in a brown paper bag, I proceeded down the street to the rendezvous point and found the winning client outside of the luncheonette conversing with other gamblers. I handed him his winnings and he pulled a ten-dollar tip out of his pocket and presented it to me. Not bothering to enter, I went to the service window to order my father’s lunch and a soft serve ice cream cone for myself. The owner, Pat, handed over my ice cream to enjoy while I waited for Al’s lunch. Pat’s ice cream was legendary—an icy, chocolaty treat that danced on the taste buds and numbed the throat.

  I had just taken my first lick when I heard an angry voice from behind. “Hey, Goldilocks, you want to spit at me again? Come on, bitch, let’s see how tough you are now!”

  My tongue froze in mid-lick, my mind racing. Of course, I knew who it was, but I was caught off guard.

  As I turned to face his accusations, the Loogie Man smacked the cone from my hand, splattering chocolate ice cream all over my shirt. Before I could say or do anything, the Loogie Man let loose a loogie that would most assuredly have qualified for a Guinness World Record. Caught in the moment and knowing there was no escape, I closed my eyes a split second before I felt the impact of his emissions. The loogie hit its mark. It splattered on my forehead and clung to the curls hanging down the right side of my face. I glanced up through my lashes, and found the slimy glob suspended over my eyebrows. Holding back the bile that rose in my throat, I stared at my attacker in horror. Before I could respond, several of the gamblers stepped up and pulled me aside, creating an impenetrable wall of safety between my attacker and me. The Loogie Man, clearly a coward of the highest degree, turned and jumped into his idling car, and escaped the wrath of the indignant group.

  A concerned patron hurried out of the luncheonette and handed me a napkin. I mechanically accepted his offering and wiped my face clean. Pete, one of my father’s best friends, picked up Al’s lunch and escorted me the short distance home. I entered the store and immediately ran to the basement bathroom to rinse my hair and wash my face.

  I could hear Bonnie’s raised voice as I ascended the stairs. Pete had already filled my parents in on the Loogie Man’s vile attack. Bonnie and Al were horrified and furious at the degrading way I had been treated by this mystery man who had so suddenly appeared in our lives. As I took a seat behind the counter and contemplated my second encounter with an adult who considered it appropriate to spit on a child, Bonnie hurried over to the luncheonette to talk with those who had witnessed the event, hoping to gather information that would reveal the Loogie Man’s identity.

  Luckily, an avid numbers player had made note of the Loogie Man’s license plate moments before the viscous loogie made its appearance. Sweet Kate, oblivious to the Loogie Man’s vile intentions and obsessed with numbers, had written down the license plate number as she made her way to the store to place her daily bets. Just as my mother reappeared in the store with little information other than descriptions of what had just occurred, Kate entered and presented my father with the Loogie Man’s license number.

  Armed with the plate number, Al made inquires and learned that the Loogie Man was a Pittsburgh native and “an up and comer” in the body building circuit. Apparently, the Loogie Man had a nasty reputation. He was known for his unpredictable behavior, especially when it came to young girls.

  Pepperoni, Mushrooms, and an Ass Whoopin’?

  Before Al could make the necessary arrangements for a sit down with “friends” who would have a “talk” with my attacker, the Loogie Man made another appearance. It was a Friday night, several days after I stood covered with spittle and chocolate ice cream; I remember this because my young cousins from Michigan were staying with us and they insisted on having pizza on Friday nights. I had already put in a full day at the store when Al ordered me to run down to Abie’s and Bimbo’s Pizza shop to pick up the half-dozen pizzas he ordered for the family and the gamblers awaiting the start of the night’s poker game. I solicited help from one of my young cousins, and we set off to our destination just a block up the Avenue.

  We found a long line leading up to the counter. Our order having been called in, I took a seat and engaged in conversation with Judy, a long-time friend of my sister. I had my back to the door when suddenly I heard a voice from behind. Obviously, the Loogie Man liked to sneak up on his victims.

  “Hey, bitch,” he screamed. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, Goldilocks.”

  I turned around to find the Loogie Man in the company of a large black woman whom I did not recognize. Seeing the two of them together, I decided that feigning bravado was my best shot at coming out of this encounter unscathed. I went on the attack—verbally, of course.

  “What do you want now? Did you come to show your lady friend what a big man you are? Did you tell her you spat on a thirteen-year-old? Maybe the guys at your gym would like to know the kind of coward they are competing against,” I taunted.

  Unfortunately, the woman showed no sign of surprise. From her angry expression, it was apparent that she was not at all disturbed by her boyfriend’s previous actions, but instead seemed intent on doing me harm. Although my bravado did not elicit the desired effect from his bimbo, there were several gasps from horrified customers.

  My insults inflamed the Loogie Man, who was not amused at my revealing his cowardice to the crowd. “Joke’s on you, bitch. I brought my woman along to kick your ass,” he sneered. “You think you are so high and mighty? No one, and I mean no one, turns me down.
Loretta knows what happened and she is insulted by your lack of respect. Aren’t you Loretta?”

  I looked at Loretta and knew I was in deep shit. Towering over me in height and bulk, eyes ablaze with fury, Loretta looked like she could eat nails. Even in her ridiculous pink spandex pants, orange shirt and gold shoes, she was menacing. Her comical attire contrasted with the Loogie Man’s silver-flecked garb. Although this was our third encounter, it was the first time I noticed the Loogie Man’s gold tooth and his strange, amber-colored eyes, which combined with his golden hair, gave him a look of a jungle cat. He was tall, extraordinarily muscular, and flamboyantly dressed, wearing a skin-tight silver and black snakeskin shirt that clung to his muscles and coordinated perfectly with his high-heeled, snakeskin boots.

  Although unaware of what lies Loogie Man had told his visibly pissed off girlfriend about our previous encounters, I was astute enough to know two things: Loretta wanted to put a major hurt on me and I would not stand a chance in a physical confrontation with her. Quickly surveying the shop for something to hit her with, I came up empty. Abie’s and Bimbo’s served take-out orders only, so there was not even a chair to use as a weapon. The few benches were far too heavy for me to handle. Many of the waiting customers had left the building at the increasing signs of trouble. I was aware that I would have to handle this predicament on my own. Out of choices, I squared my shoulders and accepted the challenge.